


Wir Verstehen Euch Nicht

by bastardmice (itsahardyparty)



Category: Rammstein, Type O Negative (Band)
Genre: Crossover, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Gun Violence, Living Together, M/M, No Smut, Organized Crime, Stabbing, The rating is for violence, aka begrudgingly sharing a living space, ich will au, lots of violence actually, teaming up but dragging their feet about it, there are a shitton of peters in this specific fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-01-21 09:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21297245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsahardyparty/pseuds/bastardmice
Summary: On the eve of a particularly big job, Rammstein begrudgingly decides to enlist another "crime family" for help--Type O Negative, a particularly abrasive group of five from Brooklyn, NY. The job brings Type O to Germany, and the differences between the two groups begin to threaten not only the success of the job, but the sanity of the German gangsters. Will they eventually be able to settle their differences and succeed, or will petty rivalry prevail?
Relationships: Kenny Hickey/Johnny Kelly, Till Lindemann/Christian Lorenz
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	1. Genesis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rammstein6669](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rammstein6669/gifts).

Flake Lorenz hated America and he hated Americans, but the very worst Americans he could think of were New Yorkers. He'd had the misfortune to visit New York for work, and had been utterly miserable the entire time. Richard and Paul were much more easily enamored by glittering lights and tall buildings, but Flake loathed the gaudiness of it all. Everything was entirely too expensive, and the people milled around, obnoxiously shoving shoulder-to-shoulder with one another, brainlessly hurrying as if they were the only person in a city of millions, and as if the other millions only existed to be a roadblock for their commute. There were rodents living underneath the subway tracks, and they were still more likable than all the humans he'd encountered. Truly, it was a city of glittering garbage. Shiny, expensive, and yet utterly filthy. Even the accents were grating, like nails on a blackboard. German sounded so elegant in comparison.

Yes, Flake was truly at his happiest when he was as far from anything New York as possible. 

"What do you _mean_ they're from New York?!" Flake demanded, leaning over the desk to squint at Till. "As if it wasn't bad enough that you want to open our organization to outsiders--"

"Thank you!" Schneider added, scowling at the very thought. "Till, I am telling you. This is a bad idea. I vote no."

"Me too."

"So do I."

Till leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, watching his boys protest with measured patience. "This one isn't being put to a vote."

They all stared at him incredulously, mouths open. 

_"What?"_ Oliver finally ventured, eyebrows knit in concern. "What do you mean?"

"I had to make a command decision, Olli," he explained. "There's no vote."

"There is _always_ a vote!" Schneider snapped. "This is a democracy!"

"I am the leader here. This has been a democracy because I have allowed it. I knew you would all allow your prejudices to cloud your judgement--"

"What if our prejudices are _right__?"_ Paul demanded, staring hard at Till. "We have not worked this hard for this long to sacrifice our family to Americans! What if they ruin everything? They don't know how it works here, they don't know how we operate--"

"Then we will teach them," Till murmured. "This is not up for debate."

Richard cocked his head, staring at Till with a look of utter betrayal on his face. "You've become a tyrant."

"Don't be ridiculous," Till snapped, standing with a definitive click of his knee brace and scowling at all of them. "I am not a tyrant, and I will not allow them to run amok. We will be keeping a close eye on them. But this is too big a job for only us. And I will NOT risk all of your lives for the sake of pride and stubbornness. This is happening, and you will learn to live with it." He sank back into his seat and winced unconsciously. His knee was bothering him again.

Suddenly, they all felt sort of guilty. Till hadn't made the decision for them out of spite, he had done it because he was watching all their backs. He always did all he could to protect them, even when it didn't always appear that way at the outset. 

"...what can we do before they come?" Richard offered quietly, his own, stumbling way of apologizing. 

"Brush up on your English," Till replied, his lips twitching in amusement when Flake moaned. "And I have required that they learn rudimentary German. It was a term of our partnership. I will not allow them to be tourists. If they will work with us, they will speak with us."

That seemed to comfort the rest of the boys, and they began to nod slowly, thawing to the idea. 

"And, uh, when will they be here?" Schneider asked, almost wincing. 

"Next week. So brush up quickly." 

"Next _week?"_

"They see no reason to wait." Till seemed as if he might smile for a moment, but didn't. "I know this is not ideal. But I think this is something we have to do."

Paul nodded. "We trust your judgement, Till. We shouldn't have..."

He waved a hand flippantly. "I would have done the same. The five of them each have a case file." Till's large hand wandered to a stack of manila folders on the corner of the desk, and he distributed one to each of them. "Read up. You should know who we are dealing with."

Schneider nodded crisply, taking his folder and beginning to flip through it. "Thank you." 

The five of them waited with their folders until Till gave a nod, allowing them to file out of the room. It was a rarity for him to dismiss them, a formality that was so different from the way they normally interacted, but he had a sneaking suspicion that his boys felt betrayed because he hadn't consulted them. They needed time to process this news. Eventually the analytical urge in each of them would roar to life--they would realize that Till was right, of course, and the risk to their health was far bigger than any risk outsiders might pose, especially since they were always so careful. They would read up on their new, soon-to-be comrades and decide that they could tolerate working with them. They would see their credentials, and decide that the inconvenience would be worth it. 

Till was so lost in his own thoughts that he failed to notice Flake lurking by the door. "Hm? I'm sorry, Flake. I hope you aren't upset."

"Oh, no. I trust you," he replied simply, wandering over to the desk and looking Till up and down. "You forgot a few things this morning."

Till rubbed his chin with one hand, thinking that he may have forgotten to shave--Flake always noticed before anyone, and reminded him faithfully. 

"Not that." Flake held up Till's cane by its skull-shaped head, lifting an eyebrow from behind the thick rims of his glasses. "I saw you wince."

"...oh. Thank you." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "You know how I leave it places--"

"And your medication?" 

"I don't need the medication," Till growled. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You have to take it. Your knee is swollen."

"Bah!" Till protested, but allowed Flake to stuff a pill into his hand. "Fine. Read the files. I know you hate Americans."

Flake smiled a little. "Yes, I do. Do you need help getting up?" 

"No," Till said, which Flake expected. "I think I'll stay down here for a bit. Let the boys settle."

He nodded a little, tucking the folder under his arm and patting Till's shoulder lightly. "I'll see you later."

When Flake climbed the stairs to the first floor, (which, in his humble opinion, shouldn't have been necessary. Why did Till refuse to move his office from the basement to the first floor, even in light of his injury?) he saw that the boys were already poring over the case files, putting their heads together and strategizing.

"Do you think they'll be staying here?" Richard asked, spreading out all the files before him on the table like a deck of magician's cards. 

"They'd better," Olli commented. "How else are we supposed to keep an eye on them?"

"I hope they aren't filthy, then. Ugh."

"This body count must be a misprint," Schneider murmured, examining one dossier with a furrowed brow. "Over 100? This is a child!"

"I saw that too!" Paul piped up, grinning impishly. "I don't know. Sometimes you'd be surprised, I suppose."

"Weapon of choice: _baseball bat?"_

"These people are crazy." But Olli was grinning. At the very least, this was going to be an interesting experience.

”They have worked with the Ukrainian mafia,” Richard commented, an eyebrow raised. “Don’t we not get along with them?”

”I think that’s the Russian mafia,” Paul supplied helpfully. “I didn’t even know there was a Ukrainian mafia.” 

"It seems like an alliance of convenience. There are some very Ukrainian areas of Brooklyn."

Olli drew one of the files closer to his face so he could squint at it. _Salvatore Abruscato._ "There's an Italian in with this group. Is that something we ought to be worried about?"

"I don't think so. They're American, remember? Melting pot."

The whole reason Till had taken it upon himself to enlist help for Rammstein was to take down a common enemy. Some members of the _Cosa Nostra_ in Italy and the Italian mafia in America had radicalized and formed a violent fringe group. Uninterested in the traditional "family" unit of operation, they had become independent and widespread, relying on remote, encrypted internet connections as opposed to large physical organizations. They focused less on money and more on violence, with an emphasis on actively hunting down and taking out their enemies, and were thought to be very dangerous. It was impossible to tell how many were a part of this movement, and each member could very well define "enemies" differently. Nobody was truly safe, but there was a degree of security in numbers.

"Hickey and Kelly might have ties to the Irish Mob."

"And Silver to the Jewish Mafia."

"Stick to the dossiers," Schneider scolded. "Don't jump to conclusions based on ethnicity."

"Either way, I'm sure they have allies somewhere," Richard mused, scratching his stubbly chin thoughtfully. "Maybe this isn't such a bad idea after all."

"They seem to know what they're doing, at the very least," Flake murmured, peering over Paul's shoulder at the file of the group's leader--_"Petrus Thomas Ratajczyk (a.k.a. Peter Steele)"._ From the picture Till had dug up, the man seemed formidable, with striking green eyes, high cheekbones, and sharp, Slavic features. He wondered if people were as afraid of him as they were of Till. "Till wouldn't have chosen them if they didn't."

Schneider opened his mouth to point out Flake's bias, but shut it quickly. That was a good point. Till never worked with anybody he thought would be messy or imprudent--it had taken him _years_ to warm to the chaotic energy of Peter Stormare. "...that's true," he admitted quietly. 

"Alright. Now that we've settled that this is a good idea after all..." Paul ducked under the table and emerged with a stack of English language textbooks, dropping them on the table with a definitive **BANG.** "Who wants to study with me?"


	2. Exodus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if my German is bad, I'm a little out of practice.

"Hurry the fuck up, we gotta get to the airport!"

"Don't get your panties in a twist!" Kenny Hickey huffed indignantly, stuffing yet another pair of black jeans into his duffel bag. It was his favorite pair, though he had about five that were hard to distinguish. The rest of his luggage consisted of a pair of Converse sneakers (he'd be wearing his combat boots on the plane), a few nondescript, darkly-colored band t-shirts and tank-tops, a pair of shorts, his sweatpants, socks, boxers, and his new-but-trusty English-German dictionary. There would be no checked bags--each of the five of them only had a carry-on bag. They would buy any extra clothes and toiletries once they reached Germany. The goal was to travel light and stay under the radar if at all possible. 

"Kenny, we're leaving whether you're in the car or not! Come on!"

Johnny's voice echoed down the hall, then he heard the rest of the boys beginning to troop down the stairs. He really had to hurry. Thinking quickly, Kenny vaulted the bed and stuffed two more books into his bag, then zipped it quickly and darted out the door. "Alright, alright, I'm on my way--"

He thumped into Josh on his way down the stairs, who just turned to stare down at him expressionlessly. "Got your dictionary?"

"Yeah, man. Don't worry."

The five of them had traveled throughout Europe before for business, usually in groups of two or three, and only for a few days or a week. This was going to be different: the entire group was moving this time, and like a high school exchange program, they'd be living with their host family--half a dozen ruthless German mobsters. Johnny was hopeful that it would be enjoyable, but the rest of them weren't so sure--neither group seemed especially personable. 

The flight was a solid seven hours, and went about as well as expected. Kenny, the shortest of the group, found himself crammed between the window and Peter's Sasquatch legs in one row, while Sal, Johnny and Josh were in another. Josh had graciously decided to take the aisle seat because he was all leg like Peter, Johnny always liked to have the window seat, and Sal got stuck in the middle and pitied himself. Many of them had brought books or skimmed the airline magazines, but the cabin was buzzing with counterfeit sleep. None of them could seem to doze off. It was something akin to anxiety, but mostly, it was the rush of a new job and knowing that they couldn't let their guards down for even a second. They'd be in a new country with new allies, and it would be important to be on their toes. Fatigue or jet lag would put them at an immediate disadvantage. 

As Sal sighed for the fifth time in ten minutes, Josh finally deigned to glance over at him. "You want me to break your fingers?"

"Shut the fuck up, Silver."

"Guys, we won't have a job if we kill each other on this flight," Johnny reminded them all. "Let's just try to stick it out. We're almost there."

"This little fucker keeps jerking his leg."

"Pete, deal with it. We're less than an hour out."

The last hour of the flight was contentious, as things tended to get when the five of them were stuck shoulder-to-shoulder with no way to escape from one another. They all loved each other like brothers, and were thick as thieves, but for God's sake, seven hours in a metal tube together was nothing short of torturous.

Finally, _finally_ their plane touched down in Berlin, and the five Brooklynites grabbed their duffel bags and hurried off the aircraft. With more room to move and space with which to stretch their legs, the tensions among them finally began to dissolve. They were all able to admit to themselves that perhaps they could have been a bit more patient, and resolved to do better on the return flight, though it was obvious that that would simply be a repeat performance.

Stormare was in front of the airport in a thundering black SUV to pick up the five New Yorkers and their duffel bags. Standing all in a straight line with their black bags and long black hair, they looked a bit like a platoon of gothic toy soldiers. He was the one direct link between Type O Negative and Rammstein, and had actually recommended them to Till highly. More than once, he'd imported one or two of them for help with a job--normally cleanup, disposal, or backup. He'd worked with all of them directly except for Steele, who had controlling tendencies and preferred to stay in Brooklyn to manage things, (so this must have been killing him) but they'd chatted on the phone more than once, and he didn't send his boys off to do jobs for just anybody after all, so he figured they were just about best friends. 

He left the truck running and jumped out, running over and somehow pulling all five of them into a bear hug. "You're here! I have gifts~"

"Oof," Josh grunted, finally prying himself free and patting Stormare on the shoulder once he was at arm's length. "Good to see you, man."

Peter rolled his eyes and Sal lifted an eyebrow at what both considered to be gratuitous affection. Kenny and Johnny were still each trapped under one of Stormare's hulking, beefy arms--he'd worked closely with them both, and seemed, in a strange way, to adore them. 

"What'd you get me?" Kenny asked, grinning up at Stormare like a child. 

"Come come come come--all of you! Come." He gathered all of them around and threw open the back hatch, unzipping a gym bag of his own to reveal an enviable amount of weaponry and ammunition: mostly handguns, pistols, butterfly knives and daggers--things that were easy-access. "I don't want you to be unprepared or have to wait when you get there. You ought to start on equal footing, yes?" 

"Kinda bold of you to trust us off the bat," Sal offered innocently. "Givin' us guns and shit before we even get there."

"Bah, of course I trust you. These two especially. Because they know if you fuck up, what will I do?"

"Pull our intestines out through our mouths," Johnny and Kenny recited faithfully. 

"Good boys, you both get an ice cream." 

They all clamored into the van, and Stormare slammed on the gas, roaring the engine to life to carry them to the heart of Berlin, to meet their new coworkers and housemates.

* * *

Schneider's first impression of the Americans was that Peter Steele was much taller than he had expected, and that Kenny Hickey was much shorter. Standing at 6'8", or an entire 2.03 meters, Peter was taller than both Olli and Flake, and the acid green eyes staring at all of them from underneath thick eyebrows and a strong forehead made him a truly formidable presence. The leftover weariness undoubtedly left over from their long flight certainly didn't help him look kinder. In fact, the circles under his eyes made him look nearly murderous. His waist-length black hair was pulled into a stern low ponytail at the back of his neck, so it wouldn't hang in his face as he glowered down at them. Kenny Hickey, on the other hand, stood about eye-level with Paul, which meant that the top of his head just barely approached Peter's shoulder. He sported a mane of silky, gently curled black hair, and sharply defined, almost mousy features, into which a permanent and infuriating smirk seemed to be set. Josh Silver was a tall, lanky wisp of a thing with a long face and strangely soft features, his ice blue eyes pretty and prominent. Unlike the others, he had two full sleeves of tattoos, but like the others, his dash-in-a-circle Type O Negative tattoo was prominent on his shoulder. Johnny was thin but lean and wiry, with a drawn face and down-turned, tired eyes. He had salon-like, enviably straight hair, and he was also, notably, the only one even attempting a smile. A bear of a man, Sal Abruscato was heavier set than the others, and his hair was long but not dyed black. His thick, hairy arms were folded over his chest, and he, like Peter, was scowling at them. 

_"Guten Tag," _Kenny ventured, already-cocky features evolving into a full on smirk. His choppy German made Paul's lips twitch, though he fought to remain stony and serious. At least they weren't the only ones out of their league. "How you guys holdin' up?"

Till lifted an impatient eyebrow at him. "I made the conditions of our teamwork very clear," he growled in measured, careful English. "You will speak German."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, a'ight. Sorry. _Entschuldigung."_

_"Wie war ihr Flug?" _Flake asked innocently. _"Gut?"_

_"Hattet ihr alle eine gute Reise?"_

_"Schade, er war nicht so gut?"_

None of the Germans even attempted to hide their amusement. Practicing in books and with others that were new to the language was something. Native speakers who spoke quickly and seamlessly? Something else entirely.

"He's either asking me about our trip, or about the state of a giant, but I can't be sure," Kenny whispered to Josh, who laboriously rolled his eyes. 

_"Wir haben einen guten Flug gehabt,"_ Johnny responded gracefully. _"Dankeschoen."_

Richard blinked at him, clearly surprised. Johnny just smiled back--he'd expected something like this, and had started listening to German radio. Besides, this was a pretty simple test. They asked about their flight. He'd been practicing his answer, even if it was mostly a lie. 

The two groups stared at one another for a moment, then began to thaw. Peter was the first to reach across the aisle, and Till gave his hand a strong shake, and then all the other boys followed suit. 

But not all guards were dropped. As Olli leaned in a little to shake Kenny's hand, he gave him a quick once-over, and as the loose fabric of his muscle shirt lifted a little, he could clearly see a strip of glimmering, dark metal--

"HE HAS A GUN!" Olli shouted, using his excess height to full advantage and leveling his forearm directly against Kenny's Adam's apple, tackling him to the floor. All the oxygen left Kenny's body with a harsh _FWUH_ as his back collided with the ground, the force of both their body weights knocking the wind straight out of him. The next few seconds passed in uncomfortable, writhing agony as Kenny struggled to regain his breath. Olli seized on the opportunity the pause provided him, and yanked the gun out of Kenny's waistband, scowling down at him. _Treacherous little rat._ "They came armed."

"That wasn't a condition," Peter objected loudly, pulling his own gun from the back of his jeans. "And if you don't get your ass off him, I'm gonna blow your head clean off your fuckin' shoulders--"

Till immediately jumped into the newly formed fray, ramming his shoulder into Peter's ribcage and body slamming him to the floor. Schneider descended on him like a faithful guard dog and kicked the gun out of Pete's hand, then jumped on top of him. He got a few good punches in, but even from the floor, Pete had a clear advantage and caught his wrists, rolling them both to pin Schneider down on his back. Paul darted up behind him, his own handgun drawn, and grabbed Peter, leveling the barrel with his temple, but with a clean-sounding **THWACK, **like a bowling ball dropping to a hardwood floor, Josh had clubbed him over the head with a large book and sent him tumbling, stunned, to the ground. Flake leaped on Josh's back in a mad grab for the book, bringing them both down with a sad, dull _thunk._

Sal was locked in a stiff grapple with Till, which was broken when Till shoved him away and swung his cane like a baseball bat. The cold, skull-shaped head of the cane connected cleanly with the side of Sal's head and he went down like a sack of rocks, slumping to the floor like a corpse.

"Hey!" Johnny shouted at the sight of Sal going down. He was on the floor with Richard, the two of them a tangle of limbs. He pulled out one of Stormare's little gifts, a lethally sharp butterfly knife, and flipped it open smoothly--it clicked into place eagerly, thirsty to see red. He locked his legs around Richard's waist and threw him off, then thrust the knife into his leather-gloved hand. 

...that was odd. He'd aimed right between the knuckles in the center of the hand, it should have cleared both bones and gone straight through--

With a smirk, Richard pulled the knife out of his wooden hand. _"Schade, _so sad." He began to advance on Johnny, grinning darkly, twirling the knife in his good hand. "I am going to cut up that pretty face of yours."

"Don't fuckin' touch him--" Kenny set his heels into the faint grooves of Olli's hips, then with one burst of strength, launched him off from on top of him. He pulled out his own knife: a mean little thing with a dark metal blade, a nefariously curved point, and a serrated edge for _sawing._ Stormare had had him, and his nasty little temper, in mind with the present. "You lisping little bitch, I'll fuckin' murder you--"

Ollie tackled Kenny again and there was a harsh smack as his cheek connected with the floor, hard enough to make his head bounce with the impact. But this time he was ready for it, and thrust his hand backward sharply, his grip on the knife handle hard enough to make his knuckles whiten with the strain. A rattling gasp tore out of Olli's throat, equal parts surprise and pain, and then, with his shirt darkening and dampening rapidly from the gash in his side, he pointed out the obvious: "You _stabbed me!"_

The following moments were a blur. Suddenly, every single member of Rammstein forgot the small battle he was entrenched in and pointed his gun at Kenny, beginning to advance on him. All the men from Type O dragged themselves to their feet and began to follow suit, doing their very best to ensure that their friend wouldn't be murdered.

Till cocked the hammer of his gun back and thrust it right into Kenny's eye, keeping him pinned to the floor with one massive boot on his thin chest. "I am going to blow your brains out." His finger curled around the trigger, and _BANG--_

Kenny squeezed his eyes shut tight, even after the bang, but it slowly became apparent to him that he hadn't been shot. So what had that bang been? Working up some nerve, he managed to squint one eye open. 

Peter Stormare was standing in the doorway, his excited, open-mouthed grin slowly melting into a look of horror, an open duffel bag with even _more_ guns in his triumphantly raised hand. "...oh."

Till whirled around to stare at him, making the connection very quickly. The vein in his temple was beginning to bulge threateningly, and the other Germans made the intelligent decision to give him a wide berth. He grit his teeth harshly, leaned on Kenny's chest for another moment, then fired off a shot that came dangerously close to his face, and left his ears ringing and his legs feeling like pudding. 

And then, he was roaring at Stormare in enraged German. The words flew too fast for any of the Americans to catch, but they all got the general idea. 

"HOW COULD YOU ARM THEM?!" Till screamed, which was very unlike him. "I PLACED ALL MY TRUST IN THESE PEOPLE, I WENT AGAINST MY BOYS, I THOUGHT THEY WERE GOING TO TURN ON US AND TRY TO KILL THEM _AND IT'S ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT?!"_

All the Rammstein members seemed visibly disturbed by Till's loss of control--all the anxiety about the mission was spilling out, and Stormare had nearly been the catalyst for disaster. Truly, he would make the best target. 

Josh, who was used to such displays, nodded at Olli mildly. "You want me to stitch you up? I'm a trained EMT."

"Yes! Someone, just--"

Flake shook his head and headed toward the large cabinet in the back. "I'll get the First Aid kit." This was so typical. He hated Americans.


	3. The Olive Branch

The smell of fresh bacon mingled with cigarette smoke led Paul to believe that Richard had gotten up early to prepare breakfast, and it had left Richard with the impression that Schneider was the one who had gotten up first. 

Flake squinted his eyes open and groped around on the nightstand for his glasses. He didn't know who was up and cooking, but it certainly wasn't him, and it certainly wasn't Till. At Flake's insistence, he'd allowed himself to sleep in and not set an alarm, and his chest still rumbled pleasantly with quiet snores underneath Flake's cheek. Till had had a rough day. He hated to lose his temper like that, and he'd been terrified that he'd been wrong after all and put the boys in danger. After a while of Flake comforting him, he'd fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep, mouth-open snoring and all. Flake enjoyed watching Till sleep. He was so beautiful when he was relaxed, when his face wasn't lined with worry. He'd faithfully fluffed up a pillow and struggled to cram it under Till's bad knee so that he wouldn't wake up stiff, then curled up beside him and enjoyed the warmth he gave the bed. 

"Uhng?" Till grunted, finally shutting his mouth and groping around with one large hand. He finally found the top of Flake's head and stroked his hair gently, cracking one eye open. "Breakfast?"

Flake rolled his eyes, but smiled and nuzzled his neck. "Yes, someone is cooking."

"I don't want to get up."

"Then don't. We can say here."

Schneider stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and stared incredulously. The Americans, battered and bruised from the previous day just like the rest of them, were cooking _their_ food in _their _kitchen. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. "So, you think this is how you will make a better first impression? By stealing our food?"

"Now, that's just fuckin' slander," Kenny snapped back, causing Johnny to giggle at the sink. "We went to the Aldi for all this shit, we got two cartons of eggs, bread rolls, bacon, _wursts_\--"

Schneider blinked. Kenny was cooking and Johnny was washing dishes, each of them already nursing a cigarette. "Alright. Why?"

"Well, I'm no scientist," Josh droned, raising an eyebrow at him. "But I don't think we made a great impression the first time."

"You didn't," he hissed. "Oliver is still very sore."

"There's not a problem in the world food doesn't solve," Sal commented, popping a chunk of sausage in his mouth. Between the two of them, he and Kenny were overseeing the preparation of eggs, bacon, and sausage. Josh was seated at the kitchen table, flipping through a German newspaper and keeping an eye on the disposable plates and utensils they'd picked up at Aldi. Peter was skulking around the kitchen, making coffee and being a backseat line-cook.

"Don't let that sausage get too dark," he commented, and Sal swatted his hand away. 

"Fuck off, I know what I'm doing."

"I don't think food can fix a stab wound," Schneider gritted out. _You fucking imbeciles._

"No, but that's why I'm an EMT," Josh commented. "I can fix the rest of the problems. The ones that food doesn't cover."

"We should get down to business today," Peter pointed out, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter. Schneider seemed to be focused on the important things here. 

"Yes. We should." Finally, one of these people he could agree with. 

"But first, breakfast," Sal announced, dumping the rest of the sausage in a large glass bowl and passing the pan to Johnny to wash. "Scrambled or fried, Chris?"

Schneider narrowed his eyes dangerously. "What did you just call me?"

"Isn't your name Christoph?"

"I go by _Schneider,_ you insufferable moron!" 

Sal stared at him for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. "You look like a scrambled guy. Hickey!"

"Gotcha." Kenny whipped two eggs in a bowl, then poured it into the skillet on one of the back burners. "You keep an eye on these, I gotta watch the bacon."

Paul stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing one eye and yawning softly. "Oh, Schneider, it's you--oh."

"Mornin'," Johnny chirped, scrubbing the grease off the sausage pan with the rough back of the sponge. "Eggs'll be done soon."

"What?"

"They are making breakfast. You know, because they stabbed Oliver, so a bit of sausage and a few eggs will make everything better."

"To be completely fair," Josh piped up, "_we_ did not stab Oliver. _Kenny_ stabbed Oliver." 

"And I said I was sorry about that."

"We know it won't fix your perception of us overnight," Johnny cut in, before Kenny had the opportunity to get heated again. "We just thought extending the olive branch _somehow_ would be better than glossing over what happened yesterday."

"So...why breakfast?" Paul asked, cocking his head. 

"Everyone feels better after a big breakfast," Sal informed him, flipping Schneider's eggs and sprinkling some black pepper on them. "Good way to start the day, lots of protein, gives you energy...do you guys normally have big breakfasts like this?"

"We're busy," Schneider answered tersely. "There isn't _time_." 

And it was true--occasionally a few eggs were made or some bread was picked up from the local bakery, but breakfast with Rammstein was a largely individual affair. Schneider often just grabbed a banana or a bowl of cereal, and Richard and Paul were mostly focused on getting coffee. Till cooked eggs sometimes, but only for himself. Occasionally for Flake. Olli usually just ate fruit salad. 

"Do you do this every day?" Paul asked, suddenly rather interested in their affairs. It had never really occurred to him that Type O Negative's dynamic would be different from theirs. 

"Just about, yeah," Sal nodded, flipping the eggs again. "It's like a..." He waved a hand, scrunching up his face. "A powwow?"

"Yeah. S'how we start the day. Talk about what work we gotta do that day and shit."

Johnny smiled a little and rinsed off his sponge, setting it back on its little holder. "Food brings people together."

All the other Brooklynites nodded, and suddenly, it was understood. Breakfast was a daily tradition because it enabled them all to bond with one another. It diffused the tension that built up among all of them, and allowed them to touch base.

"It's like a family thing," Josh added. 

"And, like it or not, 'til we're done with this job, you're family. So..." Pete gestured at the spread on the counter: two large bowls of scrambled eggs (one with cheese, one without), a bowl of roasted sausage, a plate stacked with bacon, bread rolls, and a gallon of orange juice. 

And Paul was actually kind of touched. "I will wake up the other guys."

As he scurried off, Schneider was left to stare at the members of Type O Negative, who had already made themselves at home in his kitchen. Kenny had slowly crept along the length of the counter and nestled shoulder-to-shoulder against Johnny, and Josh and Peter were leaning against the cabinets languidly as they sipped coffee from borrowed mugs. 

Schneider glanced over when he heard a crunch, then rolled his eyes when he saw Sal stuffing a piece of bacon into his mouth. 

"Don't you judge me, motherfucker."

The familiar shuffle-click-tap indicated that Till had his brace on and was out of bed, and Flake was surely not far behind. Oliver and Richard emerged from their quarters as well, Olli clutching his side and giving all of Type O a cold glare. 

"Hey there, big guy. How's the--" Kenny gestured to his side.

Oliver narrowed his eyes at Kenny, but refused to interact with him any further. Instead, he turned to Paul. "What's this?"

"They made us breakfast because they are sorry for stabbing you."

Olli stared at all of them for a moment, then took an orange out of the refrigerator. He did not trust anything these people made, especially nothing that they expected him to put in his body. "No thank you."

"I think I'm going to pass too." Flake wrinkled his nose, squeezing Till's arm lightly. 

Richard shook his head. "I just want coffee." 

"Oh, come on!" Sal objected, folding his arms over his chest. "I know you don't like us cause we're assholes, but we went to a lot of trouble here."

"Nobody asked you to," Till pointed out, glowering at him. "And speak German."

"I can't say that shit in German!" 

Peter shrugged one shoulder and rolled his eyes. His Prozac hadn't kicked in for the day yet, and this was starting to annoy him. He knew that Rammstein wasn't exactly in their fan club, but they could at least attempt to accept the gesture. "More for us, I guess. We should start planning today--"

"Planning?" Richard cocked his head, pouring himself a mug of coffee. "What's there to plan?"

Peter blinked at him, beginning to get exasperated. "...we have to find these people."

"Yes, and we are all doing our own research."

"Then why do you even want to collaborate?!"

"Because this is too big a job," Till snapped. 

"Oh, so we're here to be a body count. I see." Sal shakes his head and dumps some eggs on his plate, scowling at the lot of them. "Good to fuckin' know."

"Call it whatever you want, but we're stronger if we team up."

"What a bunch of fuckin' scumbags," Kenny muttered, stuffing a generous heap of cheesy eggs into his mouth. "Fuck all of you, actually--"

"Oh, what? We aren't part of your stupid little family anymore?" Oliver snapped. 

"Fuck you, motherfucker! If you can't even collaborate with your own group how are you gonna bring in other people--"

"That is none of your concern!" Till roared, quieting everyone. "Do your work, and we will do ours."

They all glanced uneasily at one another, before Peter finally spoke up. "I still think we should meet up once a week to compare notes." 

"Fine," Till conceded, waving a hand at them. "But stay out of our way."

Peter grit his teeth. Who did this German prick think he was, anyway? 

"Who even fuckin' refrigerates an orange anyway?" Kenny huffed, heaping his plate with food and heading off. 

Honestly, this had been as thorny a start as any of them had expected. Big cities often brought with them big personalities, but even this was a bit of a stretch. Adding in the cultural differences (abrasive Americans vs overly efficient Germans), the language barrier, and the already-terrible first impression they'd made...honestly, it would have been more worrisome if things had gone _well._ Had there been no hard feelings...honestly, the New Yorkers would have thought they were getting played. 

But they weren't, or didn't seem to be, and that was the good news. The Germans were very up front about how much they hated their guts, and the honesty was almost sort of refreshing. They personally didn't give a shit if they were liked or disliked, and this distance would probably make it easier to actually get shit done. They had already been sent some basic information and findings, and now their job was to use their own skills of deduction to beef that up and expand on it. You couldn't get to the weak spots of an organization if you didn't know the thing inside and out first. 

Johnny pulled out all the paperwork as Josh snapped his laptop open. They were going to try and triangulate hot spots, based on shootings and police activity. Since these little mock-mafia groups were so decentralized, they would be looking for multiple small headquarters, as opposed to a centroid of the entire operation. Most of Rammstein's research had pinpointed the _Casa Nostra_ family these groups had splintered off from, but that was only part of the battle. They had to find fractal groups, and then names, faces, associates, vehicles--

This was Tägtgren's job in Rammstein. They'd imported him from Sweden, even, and Stormare as well. But Peter refused to expand their operation and have it get out of hand. He did not want to be some all-powerful overseer, despite his controlling tendencies. He much preferred working closely with his men and not having to worry about menial jobs being fucked up by subordinates. The solution was simply for his boys to learn more skills. Josh was the computer whiz, Johnny could crunch numbers like a human fucking calculator, and surprisingly, Kenny ran the stats. It was a little unconventional, maybe, but it worked well for them. It kept information within the group, and cut the possibility of poor communication affecting their data. 

"That was fuckin' obnoxious," Kenny muttered, clearly still fuming. 

"You did stab the guy," Johnny pointed out gently. "I see why they wouldn't be thrilled to work with us."

"We tried to make it up to them!" 

"We are going to just have to let this go," Peter informed them all sternly, although he didn't exactly seem thrilled about it himself. "We are on foreign territory, where we have already made an abysmal impression. We need to prove to them that we can be trusted."

The boys all glanced around at each other. They didn't particularly like to _prove_ themselves to people. They were supposed to be the ones in control. They were _always_ the ones in control. To be grovelling at the feet of their new "partners" was humiliating. And to be there only for a body count just seemed insulting, especially after they'd worked so closely with Stormare. This had been sold to them as an equal partnership, but now it seemed like they were just glorified backup. 

"Why even stay? Why even try to prove it? If they don't trust us, let them kick us out."

"But they haven't kicked us out. And they never said they don't trust us," Johnny pointed out. "I hate to say it, but I think they want us around. We're gonna be an asset to them one way or another. And having a couple more allies never hurt us."

Josh nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's not a bad point."

Pete shook his head. "They're assholes. I'm sure they think we're assholes too. Let's just cohabitate, even if we don't get along. It makes us less conspicuous, at the very least."

This was their turf, too. So it seemed that Type O needed Rammstein just as much as Rammstein needed them, which, again, was _extremely_ frustrating. They wouldn't know where they were safe or not, and honestly, with their German skills? They would barely even be able to get around Berlin. The only solution seemed to be "grin and bear it." Or, at the very least, _scowl_ and bear it. But one thing was for sure, no matter how much either group disliked it: the New Yorkers would not be going _anywhere._


End file.
